AS Middle England rises up yet again – this time to rid the nation’s streets of the scourge of wheelie bins – I made a startling discovery last week.

Browsing through the contents of junk mail gathering cyberdust in a neglected e-mail address basket, I discovered a message advising me that I could soon be standing out from the crowd. Was I being offered a head-to-toe makeover, or a designer ward-robe? Unfortunately not. Apparently the way to be noticed and elevated above the hoi polloi of the Big Brother/Celebrity Wife Swap society is to personalise your wheelie bin.

This ‘must for all households’ will not only make any old lacklustre receptacle for household waste truly individual, it will also ensure that in the eventuality of the bin ever getting lost, it can be identified and returned safely to its loving owner.

I ask you. What is the world coming to? Sadly, there are people who delight in decorating wheelie bins. I have seen one on this very rock. No doubt those who so lovingly adorn their bins house them overnight in the curious bin refuges that occasionally appear in the list of planning applications published every Tuesday in this very paper.

The true purpose of these curious abodes for rubbish bins has long perplexed yours truly. Exactly what happens in a bin refuge? Are dirty bins detoxed and cleansed of impurities by experts trained solely for that purpose? Or are they counselled and nursed back from depression by a refuse receptacle and recycling bank rehabilitation social worker?

Another burning question that scorches my brain cells from time to time is: what is the difference between a wheelie bin and a euro bin?

It must matter to someone, somewhere, most probably in the delightful hamlet in the Alpine region of the Australian state of Victoria which – I know not why – goes under the name of Eurobin. Popular with the Australian skiing fraternity in the southern winter and walkers during warmer times, it is famed for a spectacular waterfall called Eurobin Falls.

Walking in that very region a decade ago, I pondered whether euro bins, like salmon, migrated back to spawn so as to keep the species going, and fill column after column of the campaigning Daily Mail.

That national daily newspaper does have a valid point to make about the proliferation of unsightly rubbish bins, stretching along street after street of cities and towns the world over. As we endeavour to save the planet by recycling, the wheelie bin industry has boomed, but in communities with no gardens, back yards or purpose-built refuges, where are householders supposed to store them?

As Jersey is poised to embark on the delights of separating household waste in the home, as opposed to dumping the detritus of consumerland in one bin and letting the parish cart it out of sight and out of mind to become someone else’s problem, where will those with no room to swing a cat house the various bins that will soon become a daily part of Island life?

Unlike the forward-thinking burghers of northern Europe, we have not prepared for the onslaught of multi-coloured dustbins. Houses and apartment blocks are not being built with communal shoots to deposit waste in the appropriate container on the ground floor.

Tuning into a teatime television ‘holiday home swap’ programme a couple of years back, I happened upon two families – one from Norway and t’other from the Home Counties. The English family were mystified by the complex rubbish separation which their counterparts advised was a community duty. If my memory serves me well, there were nine degrees of separation. Well, when it is pitch-black 24 hours a day in deep winter, you need something purposeful to pass the time.

Nonetheless, considering how difficult it is for many Jersey households to separate glass and compostables from the bulk of household waste, I say hats off to the Norwegians for coming up with nine and managing to sort them. Though it begs the question as to how many wheelie bins there are dotted around the frozen north.

WHILE the ever-zealous Daily Mail campaigns to remove unsightly wheelie bins from the cul-de-sacs, avenues, estates, drives and back streets the length and breadth of the UK, there are more sinister interlopers to concern us.

Apparently, we are under threat from an invasion of elephants that, according to politicians and those who report and comment on their activities – or more appropriately, lack of activity – are cropping up in unusual places.

These increasingly annoying references – such as the elephant in the room, or corner, or on the table – do not, of course, refer to a real elephant but are used in the way of all idioms in our rich and complex mother tongue, for an obvious truth that is being ignored or goes unaddressed. Failing to realise the bleeding obvious is common among politicians all over our blue and green planet.

The metaphorical presence of an elephant starts from the premise that it is very difficult to ignore such a huge beast, ergo those in the room or sitting at the table are pretending that the elephant is not there. Therefore it can be assumed that they are concerning themselves with trivia and not the issues that really matter.

If the track record of Charlie Chuckle’s Laughter Factory is anything to go by, as the current shift is poised to embark on its over-long grandes vacances – with taxpayers’ hard-earned cash to spend on sojourns in the sun, ice lollies and jugs of Pimms – then the House must be crammed to the gunwales with elephants.

Elephants are credited with being highly intelligent species. They exhibit a wide variety of behaviour sorely lacking among elements of the Island’s government, such as compassion, self-awareness and a talent for the arts. 0Elephants support each other by working together for the good of the collective.

Rogues among their number whose inappropriate behaviour threatens the cohesion of the herd are ejected and excluded. Elephants also have the ability to communicate over great distances without resorting to mobile phones or e-mails. Nor do they write tedious and insulting blogs.

Could we do any worse by ditching our beloved politicians and inviting the elephants to come out of the corner, down from the table to have a go at sorting out our current woes?